


A Knight at the Palace

by round_robin



Series: Geralt Does Toussaint [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Explicit Consent, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Power Imbalance, Rimming, Scar Worship, Service Kink, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Toussaint (The Witcher), Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: Anna Henrietta had never much cared what people thought of her. The Illustrious Ruler of Toussaint—jewel of the south, seat of art, culture, and the finest wines in the world—didn't need to burden herself with the expectations of others. She did what she wanted, when she wanted. Yet Anna Henrietta was no fool, she knew which bridge would be too far, and that bridge was named Geralt of Rivia.The handsome Witcher had become somewhat of a fixture in Toussaint, much to Anna Henrietta's delight... and her frustration. Idle court gossip barely touched her, she could invite Milton to her bed and chins would wag, before finding another topic. She could not expect the same with a Witcher in her bed. Some things were impossible, even for royalty.
Relationships: Anna Henrietta | Anarietta/Damien de la Tour, Anna Henrietta | Anarietta/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Damien de la Tour
Series: Geralt Does Toussaint [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010184
Comments: 43
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very game lore heavy... sorry. I just think Damien de la Tour deserves a little love, okay. The smut is in the next chapter, these Toussainti bastards are all so wordy. This is mostly Geralt/Damien, but they'll figure out how to make it all work together in the end. usually, with a power imbalance like this, I would tag dubious consent, but as you'll see, Anna Henrietta and Geralt go out of their way to make sure everyone is on board. Explicit consent is sexy.
> 
> Thank you everyone who indulged me in my "Geralt fucks his way through Toussaint" needs, I really appreciate it. I didn't have a specific B&W ending in mind for this because I didn't want to get too bogged down in feels, so imagine whichever you enjoy. Shout out to Heathen on BLiKM discord who helped me with armor facts <3

Anna Henrietta had never much cared what people thought of her. The Illustrious Ruler of Toussaint—jewel of the south, seat of art, culture, and the finest wines in the world—didn't need to burden herself with the expectations of others. They said she could not rule alone and she ignored such cries, leading the duchy to prosperity; they said her ambition would be her ruin, and yet here she stood when other upstart lords and courtiers were remanded to the footnotes of history. _Dull_ footnotes. She did what she wanted, when she wanted. Yet Anna Henrietta was no fool, she knew which bridge would be too far, and that bridge was named Geralt of Rivia.

The handsome Witcher had become somewhat of a fixture in Toussaint, much to Anna Henrietta's delight... and her frustration. Idle court gossip barely touched her, she could invite Milton to her bed and chins would wag, before finding another topic. She could not expect the same with a _Witcher_ in her bed. Some things were impossible, even for royalty.

She continued inviting Geralt to functions, balls, more casual parties and dinners, performances of all sorts, he was a hit at the tournament each year and society grew... accustomed to him. Geralt sat at her table, making limited conversation, but always looking in fine form, as strapping as any of her knights, the striking white hair adding an eye-catching flair. If all she was allowed to do was look, then she would look her fill, a glass of Sangreal dangling from her fingers.

Yet Anna Henrietta wasn't the only one looking. With Geralt on her left and Damien de la Tour on her right, she had an up close view of her dedicated captain of the guard's reactions, and knew exactly what he thought of the White Wolf.

He was wary of Geralt at first, protective as in all things. The first few events Geralt actually came to, Dameion's hand did not leave his sword for the entire night. He relaxed eventually (as much as that man could relax) and Geralt had already proven himself a capable protection of the Duchy and the Duchess Herself, which went a long way to convince Damien of one's sincerity. He was, after all, her most loyal knight.

She gave it much thought—some might say _too much_ , but planning a seduction was akin to planning a battle, over preparation was sometimes necessary—before approaching Damien. No one batted and eye when she dismissed the rest of the guards; if the Duchess was not safe with the captain of her guard, was there a true safety for her anywhere in Toussaint?

“Damien,” she said, her voice low. She gazed at the wine glass in her hand, appreciating the deep red as the light reflected off the crystal. “I have a question for you, and I need your absolute honesty. I will not demand it as your sovereign, but I want to know. Will you answer me what I ask?”

Damien seemed to bristle at the question before nodding. “Of course, Your Grace. I have never given you anything but my honest thoughts. I do not intend to abandon that practice now.”

Anna Henrietta smiled softly to herself and a tingle shot between her legs. She looked up, locking eyes with the most loyal man she'd ever known. “What do you think of Geralt of Rivia?”

* * *

Geralt had to admit, thought B.B all but shoved him out the door tonight, “You are invited to the Grand Ball, sir, it is not an opportunity to waste,” he was having a good time. He'd had a better time at some of the Duchess' other parties, but this one was pretty good.

Fabulous food, as always, and the wine was unmatched, and there were a few knights he saw at last year's tournament who loved comparing stories with him that made for good company. They laughed long and deep, bellies shaking with mirth when he told the one about the godling, ice troll, doppler, and werewolf, who tried to hire him for a contract so they could do away with him. “Only really had to do away with the werewolf, the others were harmless,” he said. “They just wanted someone to hear them, and I guess I was good enough.”

Sir Reneau, an aging man who proclaimed last year was his last tournament (which he said every year) tipped his glass to Geralt. “The true embodiment of Honor and Compassion if I've ever seen!”

“Nonsense!” Sir Fillair, younger, but with the heart of a poet, Jaskier would like him, waved away the comment. “Sir Geralt's quest clearly showed _all_ of the Chivalric Virtues! Valor, for accepting the contract in the first place—” Geralt hid his smirk, they always did this, as if it wasn't a Witcher's job to take contracts, like he did it willfully like them, “—Honor, for listing his previous noble deeds to the scoundrels; compassion for sparing the lot; wisdom for seeing the true evil in the werewolf; and generosity for... sparing them.”

“You said that already,” a third knight pointed out, Geralt didn't catch his name. They were all too deep in their cups to really be bothered by it.

Geralt wished to join them in their revelry—he'd gotten truly smashed at some of these royal parties, and that was saying a lot for a Witcher—but the waiters milling around with wine kept missing him. He'd had a glass or two, but nothing like the other parties the Duchess had basically demanded he attend, one of the perks was getting drunk on some very fortified wine, Anna Henrietta even snuck him a bottle of very nice vodka once. “Don't tell,” she whispered. “A Duchess in Toussaint caught without a glass of wine in her hand might lose her head.”

He excused himself from the knights to find another glass, his had been empty for some time. At least five serving trays filled with small, but admittedly delicious bites of food stopped, offering him plenty to eat, no wine though. He climbed the grand stair case, chasing down a waiter with a bottle in his hand, when a familiar golden skirt caught his eye. Russet tresses piled high, Anna Henrietta stopped in front of him, her cheek twitching in the smallest smile. “Geralt, so pleased to see you. Are you enjoying the party?”

A guard hovered nearby, so Geralt bowed before answering, he'd learned something of decorum since becoming a fucking honest to gods knight. “I always enjoy these parties, Your Grace, though B.B had to throw me out the door for this one.”

“Ah, that majordomo of yours deserves a raise, he's the best in all of Toussaint. Make it so, by order of the Duchess.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “You gonna finance this raise, Your Grace?”

That small smile appeared again, lingering for a little longer. “No, but you can put my down for the first order of wine once Corvo Bianco starts producing again. How far off would you say that is?”

“B.B says a few years yet, but I'm confident we can make something good. As you said, I have the best majordomo in Toussaint on my side.”

They chatted about Corvo Bianco for a moment more, another guest came by to get her attention, but as Geralt went to depart, her eyes snapped to him, commanding him to stay. They talked some more, and the glass in his hand remained empty. The Duchess was never usually this obtuse, so he lifted it a little. “Would love to get a refill, but I seem to keep missing the servants passing bottles around.”

A little sparkle shined in her eye and she crooked one well manicured finger. “Follow me, Sir Geralt.”

Ever the dutiful subject, Geralt followed. She led him to a room off the side of the main hall. The door was open, people passed by, some waving at them, but Anna Henrietta paid them no mind as she produced a bottle Geralt had only seen once before. Pouring the rich Sangreal into his glass, Anna Henrietta winked. “Tell no one of this.”

“Don't you worry, all your secrets are safe with me.” Had Geralt not been a Witcher, he would've missed the delicate arch of her eyebrow as he devoted most of his attention to the truly special wine now filling his goblet. But only _most_ of his attention.

He ducked his head and carefully sniffed the wine, just like Barnabas-Basil had taught him, before taking a sip. Rich flavor flowed across his tongue, sweet, yet tangy, Geralt imagined he could taste every single grape as they ripened in the sun, waiting to be picked and matured into a truly exceptional vintage. He nodded, taking a deeper sip. “I see now why this wine is fit only for the Ducal table.”

Tapping her finger to her lips, Anna Henrietta smiled again. Geralt liked seeing her smile. It wasn't that she was a stern woman, more... practical. She knew the exact air she had to project to keep her power, and she did it all with the kind of power unseen in most northern rulers—men and women equally. She didn't need to fight wars to prove her strength (though Nilfgaard at your back always helped) she'd earned the love and respect of her people through fairness, and an even hand. Geralt appreciated that kind of power in a woman.

Though he wanted to sip slowly, truly enjoy the remarkable wine, it was still gone too soon. Once his glass was empty, the Duchess took his arm and led them back to the party. “Thank you,” Geralt said before they went back into the main room. “That was a special treat.”

That eyebrow arched again. “You're most welcome. I have a room for you tonight. It's late, save your poor horse.”

Geralt was fine riding home, Corvo Bianco wasn't too far, and he was no where near drunk enough to give Roach an issue. He was almost fucking sober in fact, a total of three glasses of wine making it into his hand all night, enough to keep him enjoying the night, but not nearly enough for him to feel it. But, he really couldn't say no to Anna Henrietta, not when she offered him her family's special wine, and not when she leaned into him like that, one hand on his bicep, squeezing, appreciating, while her puffy skirts covered up the fact that she was fully plastered against his side.

If this were any other place, and she were any other woman, Geralt would have no problem wrapping an arm around her hips and asking to see that room now... But he'd gladly wait, see what she truly had planned for him.

People started trickling out soon after. Geralt got his hands on one more glass of wine, more for the taste than anything else, as he was about as far from drunk as a Priestess of Melitele, and asked an attendant where he'd be sleeping for the night.

Up stairs, he was led to a room strangely close to Anna Henrietta's chambers. He wasn't exactly sure which one was her room, but he smelled the Duchess' perfume more keenly in this hall. While countless others would disagree—Yennefer to start, Jaskier, Eskel, Yennefer again—Geralt wasn't stupid, he just didn't see the need to over think. The few glasses of wine he got tonight, the way the waiters seemed to always miss him, almost like they'd been told to do so, then Anna Henrietta sharing her family's special wine, giving him a room for the night...

He opened the doors to the chamber to find a maid pouring one last steaming bucket of water into a bath, delicate soaps and oils placed on a tray nearby. The maid stood up and wiped her brow, then curtsied, making her way out and shutting the doors behind her.

Sober, given a room for the night, and a bath. That clinched it then. For one reason or another (and he dearly hoped he was on the right track here) the Duchess wanted him _available_ for the night, and clear-headed too. Well, who was Geralt of Rivia to say no to royalty? Usually the first in line, but royals usually wanted to kill him, not sleep with him.

Shedding his clothes, he stepped into the bath, letting the near scalding water penetrate deep into his muscles. He almost didn't come tonight, one of the outbuildings at the far edge of Corvo Bianco needed repair, and Geralt spent all day in the hot sun. The last thing he wanted to do was troop up to the palace, he wanted a soak in his own bath, but B.B was insistent. “An invitation from the Duchessa herself for the Grand Ball. You must go, I will accept no other answer.” The majordomo helped him into his armor— “Knights are allowed to wear their colors at the Grand Ball, sir,” —and sent him off. And now he had a room and a possible guest arriving soon... Maybe B.B was right, he needed to spend more time at the palace, Geralt would come to every ball if he knew he'd get a bath and a good tumble out of the deal.

But no, there was no way Anna Henrietta herself was coming to see him. Maybe she arranged a meeting with an admirer from the tournament, someone too shy to approach a Witcher on their own, hence wanting him sober enough to really think his decision through. Geralt didn't let it bother him, he just lay back and enjoyed his bath, that alone was worth the trip. Corvo Bianco was a lovely place, but even he only had a pretty washtub just big enough for him. B.B was working on getting something better, but these things took time. The bath he currently sat in was a proper tub with claw feet and all, big enough for him to stretch his legs and rest his arms on the rim.

He must've drifted off, because the door opened and a familiar perfume swirled through the room, sticking on air humid from the bath. Geralt opened his eyes just in time to see Anna Henrietta herself standing at the end of the tub, her eyes very interested in what lay below the water.

Geralt almost twitched to cover himself, but stayed relaxed, no need to make this awkward. “Your Grace? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

That smile returned, fuller than downstairs, showing the laugh lines at the corners of her lips. Women weren't allowed to show their age, especially royal women, but Geralt wished he saw her laugh lines more, they made her already attractive face even more radiant. “Pleasure... you know, Geralt, you are much smarter than anyone gives your credit for.” She took one last look at his cock, now hard under the water, but the bath was too full for the head to break the surface, she swept over to the other side of the room and poured herself a glass of wine before sitting down in the great winged chair in front of heavy damask curtains. The chair that was pointed straight at the bed.

She swirled the wine before taking a sip, considering her words carefully. “I would like you to do me a favor tonight, Geralt. In a few moments, someone will come through that door. I'd like you to take him to bed with you, and I'd like to stay here while you do it.” Eyes never leaving his, she sipped her wine.

Geralt sniffed the air cautiously, then hid his smirk. Humans smelled like lust most of the time, but there was a special kind of smell to lust that was about to be fulfilled. He could smell the wet pussy that no doubt lingered under voluminous skirts, the silk doing little to hide her arousal, at least, from a Witcher.

“Depends,” Geralt said. “Who is _he_? If you send in the executioner, I'm inclined to say no.”

“Trust me, you already get along well. Or... you do now.”

Geralt flicked through all the knights he knew, who didn't like the look of him at the start, then warmed to him once they realized the Witcher was a man just like them, trying his best in life. He'd had rocky beginnings with so many knights in Toussaint, but they all came around soon enough. He opened his mouth to guess when there was a firm knock at the door. Geralt stayed in his bath, turning to look.

“Come in,” Anna Henrietta called.

The door opened and Geralt's breath caught. In walked Damien de la Tour himself, his armor shining like a new coin, the fresh scars on his face mostly healed. Damien was already a hard man, and the new slashes he wore across the side of his face made him look... well, they made him look like a Witcher. Geralt held his breath as Damien shut the doors behind him. He didn't bow to Anna Henrietta, rather he dropped into at ease, waiting for further instructions.

“Geralt.” Anna Henrietta's soft voice called his attention back. Blue eyes bore into his, pupils dark with lust. “This is not an order from the Duchess, it is a request from Anna Henrietta. If you do me this favor, you may ask for whatever you like in return. What do you say?”

Looking from Anna Henrietta—perfect, composed as always, but the smell of heat and desire thick on her skin—to Damien, the dutiful guard who also smelled like _fuck_ , like he wasn't just here under orders, like he _wanted_ to be here, Geralt licked his lips. He stood up from the tub, turning to face Damien, giving him a good long look at the thick cock hanging between Geralt's legs. A blush rose high up on those noble cheeks and Geralt smirked. “It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

Damien de la Tour was a man of honor, no one—not even his enemies, men he'd prosecuted for crimes against the Duchy—could deny this. He spent his life in service, first as a simple soldier, one more face in the infantry, then as a guardsman, before rising through the ranks to protect the Duchess herself, a duty he did not take lightly, and fulfilled with all his heart and soul. None were more dedicated than he, and his dedication was greatly rewarded, Her Illustrious Highness treating him, not as just a protector, but as a member of her inner most circle. He had her confidence and she had his.

Such dedication brought him to miss out on what some might call the more _essential_ life experiences. Short of some friendly hands and rutting as a younger recruit, Damien hadn't... well, there was no time for that, for the frivolity of a wife or a lover.

His life was full in other ways, he'd seen plenty of action, a fair bit of that recently even, as vampires flooded the streets of Beauclair, and his face earned another badge of service more obvious than any medal. He wore every scar with pride, though he did like them a little better when they faded to white; angry red or bright pink skin was... it was difficult to look at his reflection, even small glimpses when he polished his armor. He would never present himself to a woman in this condition.

A man might understand, yet he held back there as well. As captain of the guard, even his peers would find his advances... difficult to parse. Was he acting as just another man requesting company? Or did the pressure of his station color the whole thing in a tawdry shade? They'd never know, and neither could he.

So dedicated to his position, Damien didn't really think about it, to be honest. Not until Geralt of Rivia came to Toussaint. He disliked the Witcher at first; who was he to interfere in matters of the Duchy? His men had it well in hand, as always, and Damien would trust the Duchess' safety to no man, least of all an untested northern barbarian.

Geralt of Rivia was _no man_ , and he was far from untested. Witchers, it seemed, were trained since near birth, hardened into efficient and deadly monster slayers. He bore the scars of his deeds the same as Damien, though Geralt didn't seem bothered by them as much, holding his head high, shoulders straight, as he got on with his duties.

The more he got to know Geralt, the more Damien came to rely on him, and the more he relied on him, the more Damien thought—

He didn't harbor the same prejudices of the north, didn't look down upon the Witcher for the simple fact that he was a Witcher and not a man, though he failed to grasp the difference. Geralt looked every bit a man, and to be sure, Damien was looking. After a life time in troop barracks with the fittest men on the Continent, Geralt was still a sight: broad shoulders, slim hips perfect for quick turns and swinging a sword with deadly precision, bulging muscles everywhere, the kind strong enough to bear any load but also protect those who needed it. There was a lot to admire about Geralt of Rivia.

So Damien looked. There was no harm in it. Always at the Duchess' side, he had ample opportunity. He watched Geralt make small talk with lords and ladies, people who could never hope to hold the attention of a man of action like Geralt. The Witcher nodded and smiled, sometimes he talked about his vineyard, though he was new to the business he was picking it up quickly; he graciously accepted tips and suggestions from other noble vintners. He seemed to like conversing with the knights best, the ones they both went up against at the tournament (in the years Damien chose to indulge, not often, but he enjoyed the sport of it, his combat with Geralt had been a highlight last year). Though he fit in well with the crowd of men that were both Damien's peers, and stationed below him, the Captain couldn't bring himself to join the conversations, he didn't want to spread rumors...

Damien enjoyed the more formal parties best, the ones where Geralt's excellent majordomo sent him in full armor. Not his tournament armor, oh no, the Witcher proudly wore the regalia of his school, pleased to show it off to any curious onlookers. One night, when he was feeling weak, Damien asked to see the armor a little closer.

“This color, it doesn't look like a dye I'm familiar with. How did you get such a deep black?” Though Toussaint was mostly autonomous, Damien was very familiar with the Nilfgaardian armor, the _Black Ones_ had that nickname for a reason, but after a while the color started to fade and reveal the natural leather underneath. Geralt's armor looked as black as night, yet it wasn't a fresh dye treatment. In fact, Geralt frequently spoke of how old most of his equipment was, lovingly tended to over decades, only replaced when he had no other choice.

With a smirk, Geralt leaned in close. “Oh, can't speak of it here. Witcher secrets. Follow me.” Geralt pulled Damien away from the party, back inside the palace. Though most of the activity was out in the luscious gardens, the mostly deserted hall was still too crowded, so Geralt walked until he found an empty chamber, and closed the door behind them. A lump formed in Damien's throat.

The joke faded from his smile as he moved in close, holding out his arm for Damien to examine once again. “It's not really a secret, more of an obscure technique. Have you heard of vinegroon?”

Damien tried to reach back into the years of knowledge he'd gained as he spoke with smiths, squires, anyone who tended or made his armor. He learned a great deal from those around them, knowledge came from all sources, not just the nobility. But he was having a bit of trouble remembering this wealth of knowledge. Geralt was so close, they were almost touching. It was... distracting.

Finally, he shook his head. “I have not.”

“Iron filings in cheap vinegar, but it reacts with naturally bark tanned leather. It's a chemical reaction, turns the leather black permanently, doesn't just cover the natural coloring.” Geralt still held his arm out, almost as if he wanted Damien to touch... so Damien did.

Removing his gloves, he ran his fingers over the leather. It felt like armor, he'd touched similar before, but there was something different about knowing it was _Witcher_ armor. There seemed to be power in it, power in Geralt, perhaps, that made Damien want to keep touching. He pulled his hand away and slipped his gloves back on. “Fascinating. I must look up this technique.”

Geralt shrugged and stepped back. Damien felt the air rush back into his lungs as soon as the respectable space between them returned. “Some of the smiths and leather workers up at Kaer Morhen were old—really old, even compared to me—they said they knew every technique in the book and they were right. I found the book, brought it with my to Corvo Bianco. Next time I come for a shindig, I'll bring it for you.”

Damien didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. The next time Geralt accepted an invitation to one of the Duchess' events—a dinner this time, where he sat one place away from Damien, only Her Grace separating them—he grabbed Damien in the hall and pushed a book into his hands. “The language is a little archaic, but vinegroon is in there.”

“Thank you,” Damien said. It took all his strength to keep his voice even. Geralt was standing close again, close enough that Damien could smell his hair... a little bit of sweat and dirt from his ride, Geralt still looked presentable. Once again, he wore his armor, though it wasn't called for at a dinner. Damien appreciated it none the less.

There were other instances, where Geralt spoke to him about matters other than the Duchy. Whenever Geralt saw him, he asked Damien to join him in whatever conversation he was having with a few tournament regulars, men who were both Damien's social equals, and below his rank... But Geralt was neither. As a knight of Toussaint and a foreigner, Geralt occupied the unique place of being neither above, nor below Damien. He wasn't even on the scale. People regarded him as a knight, yet they allowed him certain excesses that would be shunned by society in any other instance. Geralt seemed to be the perfect sort of man for Damien to...

He tried not to think about it, and failed. Resigning himself to looking only, Damien crawled into his bed every night and wrapped a hand around his cock, wondering what it would be like to have Geralt of Rivia between his legs.

And he was satisfied with those fantasies, until his glorious Anna Henrietta said the words he would never forget: “What do you think of Geralt of Rivia?”

Damien's mouth fell open and no words came out. Was he dreaming? Imagining his sovereign seeing into his deepest thoughts? He sputtered, stepping back a little. And then, he did something he'd never done before: he looked _away_ from the Duchess, ducking his head in shame. “He is an honorable man.”

Considering her most loyal captain once more, Anna Henrietta set her wine glass down and stood, crossing the room and taking his hands in hers. The gesture was so soft, so unlike her, Damien looked up again, face bright red. “Damien, I ask you this, not as your Duchess, but as a woman who is not always free to pursue her desires: what do you think of Geralt? Because I have been looking at him, and I've seen you looking as well. I want...” She bit her lip, choosing her words carefully. “I want to know how you feel about him, before I ask you what I desire most. Will you tell me?”

A furious blush still burning across his face, Damien nodded. Though she instructed him to act as if she was not his sovereign, she would always be his Duchess, and he owed her his honesty. “He is very handsome. I think about him... quite a bit.”

Instead of the frown he thought he'd see, Anna Henrietta smiled, squeezing his hands in hers. She'd yet to let go. “I think about him as well. Yet that avenue is not open to me.” She didn't have to explain, Geralt was inappropriate for her for the same reason he might be appropriate for Damien: foreigner with a noble title, both outside and within their carefully constructed system. Geralt was a singular man, that much was certain. “I'd like to see you together, if you understand what I mean.”

If possible, Damien's face flashed hotter, the blush traveling down his chest. He'd heard _those_ sorts of stories from the enlisted men. Visiting brothels, one wanted to watch but the woman charged extra for the privileged. He never thought, not in a thousand years, that his Anna Henrietta would desire the same as the crude enlisted men, but desire, it seemed, knew no bounds of class or structure.

He nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you agree? Will you let me...” She bit her lip again, making them even rosier, more lovely than before. “This is your choice, Damien, in all ways. I will not order you. But I would consider it a great personal favor, if you allowed me to watch you and Geralt together.”

The blush must extend to his toes now, he was sure of it. The thought of Anna Henrietta, _his_ Duchess, sitting back and watching as Geralt moved between his legs, making Damien's every fantasy come true in ways he hadn't even imagined. They were of the same desire at the moment, the same lust for the same Witcher, only she was not allowed to have him, and decided to give him to Damien... Could he do it? If she ordered him, it would be easy to agree, anything for his Duchess, but she wanted him to be honest, wanted it to be his choice.

And what better choice for one's first bed partner than Geralt of Rivia?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damien had been waiting for this. All the times he imagined Geralt in his bed, golden eyes and plump lips smiling their mischievous smile, he imagined skilled hands removing his armor. Geralt was always dressed in his armor as well—black leather under chain mail marked with a wolf's head, so different than his heavy plate but so similar, designed to keep them both safe while they did their duties to the world. Geralt was naked now, still dripping from his bath, and Damien didn't have it in him to complain.
> 
> Rough fingers scared worse than his own slid over the buckles of his gauntlet. “Next time, you can take me out of my armor,” Geralt said. Damien inhaled sharply; could Witchers read minds? He'd heard such tales, but none of it was true. And next time... next time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all those who indulged me in my very specific Blood and Wine fascination. This is the last part of this series (for now, unless I find another character to enjoy). There is a bit of Geralt/Anna Henrietta/Damien at the end of this chapter, but it is mostly Geralt/Damien, with Anna Henrietta watching.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please enjoy Geralt destroying the knight.

“I shall invite Geralt to the grand ball,” Anna Henrietta told him a few days later. She was planning on inviting him anyway, but letting Damien know when it would happen was good, gave him time to... prepare.

How one prepared for this sort of battle, he hadn't a clue, and as soon as he walked into Geralt's chambers and saw them together—Anna Henrietta perched in a chair, her eyes black with lust, and Geralt fresh from the bath, dripping and glorious, one eyebrow arched in amusement—all Damien's thoughts promptly flew out of his head. He locked the doors behind him and took a breath. “Good evening, Geralt... Anna Henrietta.”

Geralt's other eyebrow arched as well, his lips parting in shock. “As you can see,” Anna Henrietta said, “There will be no titles tonight. Damien and I have agreed, and wish to extend you the same courtesy, Geralt. We are simply people who wish to enjoy themselves. As I said, this is not an order, but a request. I request that you take Damien to bed.”

Though he'd already agreed, Geralt took a moment to close his eyes and sniff the air around him. The thick scent of lust in the room doubled as soon as Damien closed the door, and Geralt opened his mouth to taste it. Thick and musky with a hint of... uncertainty? Virginity was a crock, Witchers couldn't smell the faux purity, but he could definitely smell a bit of anxiety tainting the otherwise musky deliciousness. That was the key there, everyone was excited for sex, virgins were simply excited and nervous. Opening his eyes, he looked at Damien: standing straight and proud as usual, nothing to give away his feelings, but smells didn't lie.

“May I have a moment alone with Damien?” Geralt asked.

Anna Henrietta pursed her lips before nodding, rising from her chair. “Let me know when you are ready.” She opened the door to the small dressing room off the chamber and left them alone. As soon as she was gone—heart beating a little fast, still excited, but taking the moment to collect herself—Geralt's eyes snapped to Damien. His posture hadn't changed, there was no release of tension when Anna Henrietta left, Damien stood as unmoving as a stone.

Still naked, Geralt made his way over to the dutiful captain of the guard. “I need you to tell me you want this. If she ordered you, my answer is no.”

“Don't worry.” Blue eyes met his, and he took in the rugged scars he remembered when they were fresh. He'd watched this man bleed as his home fell apart around him, and yet here he stood, stronger than ever. “It was her idea, but I am very _interested_.”

“Yeah, I see how interested.” Geralt ran his finger over the bulge in Damien's leathers, making him gasp. “You Toussanti knights and your flowery language. Anna Henrietta wants us to have sex. Is that what you want too?”

“Yes,” Damien whispered.

A low heat started to simmer deep in Geralt's belly, making his cock jerk. He was already hard, difficult not to be with two randy humans nearby, but now he was fucking invested. If he didn't get a piece of Damien tonight—a consensual, more than willing piece—Geralt would be very disappointed indeed. “Is there anything you don't like? Something you want me to avoid?”

Damien's lips parted, then he seemed to flounder. “I've never come across anything I dislike.”

Hmm, not a lie, but very far from the truth. Geralt leaned in closer, pressing their foreheads together, letting Damien feel the heat of his cock through his leathers. “You don't need to keep up the pretense here, Damien, I know. Don't ask me how.” Explaining to a man you could smell the anxiety on him was not sexy. Geralt was used to men who'd never taken a cock before, he knew the smell of it, hopefully Damien would see it as a new adventure rather than a personal failing. “We can take it slow, alright? Do what you want. She just gets to watch, we call the shots.”

And for his first decision, Geralt leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Damien's lips parted in shock and Geralt licked inside, just a little, a quick flick of his tongue over a surprisingly full bottom lip and across his tongue, giving Damien a small taste of what was to come. Pulling back, Geralt cupped the strong jaw before pressing kisses down freshly scarred skin. The Long Night of Fangs, as the locals had come to call it, was more than a year ago, but deep scars took a while to heal, they were still sensitive and Damien shivered exactly the way he expected.

Running the tip of his nose along the largest gash, Geralt whispered. “Is this alright?”

Damien shivered. “Yes.”

“Do you want more?”

A small nod. “Yes.”

Geralt spent another moment running his lips and tongue across Damien's scars, treating them to all the kindness he showed Eskel's. They were probably untouched, even by Damien's hand, his bald head made it so no flowing hair would brush them to desensitize the skin, it's why Eskel wore his hair over his face, partly to hide when he needed it, partly to get the still ragged nerves used to touch. Damien had no such advantage. Gentle licks and kisses had the captain of the guard shaking in his arms, shivery little breaths pushing through his lips, heart pounding. He grabbed Geralt's wrists, holding him in place, holding them together.

Once he'd lavished attention on every bit of scarred flesh he could see at the moment, Geralt kissed him again, both of them tasting of sweet wine. “That was just for you. She doesn't have to see that.”

“Thank you,” Damien whispered back. “She can return now. I'm _eager_ to start.”

Geralt's eyes lit up, a smile crossing his face that Damien recognized... it looked like it belonged to a wolf. Soft lips kissed him again and turned around, Geralt's fingers still cupping his jaw. “Anna Henrietta, we're ready for you.”

The dressing room door opened and Anna Henrietta returned to the chair, her cheeks flushed. “Have we reached a decision, gentlemen?”

“We have.” Walking around behind Damien, Geralt rested his chin on the man's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. Even with his armor on, it wasn't difficult for Geralt to hold him close. He trailed his nose up Damien's neck and smiled at the pleasing shiver that shot down his spine. “Do you want to remove your armor? Or do you want me to do it?” Damien's eyes flashed to Anna Henrietta, trying to guess what she wanted of him, as he did in all things. Geralt responded with a light nip to his neck. “What do _you_ want, Damien?”

He swallowed thickly before turning his head and kissing Geralt, the first initiative he'd taken so far since walking into the room. “You do it, please.”

“I concur,” Anna Henrietta said.

Damien had been waiting for this. All the times he imagined Geralt in his bed, golden eyes and plump lips smiling their mischievous smile, he imagined skilled hands removing his armor. Geralt was always dressed in his armor as well—black leather under chain mail marked with a wolf's head, so different than his heavy plate but so similar, designed to keep them both safe while they did their duties to the world. Geralt was naked now, still dripping from his bath, and Damien didn't have it in him to complain.

Rough fingers scared worse than his own slid over the buckles of his gauntlet. “Next time, you can take me out of my armor,” Geralt said. Damien inhaled sharply; could Witchers read minds? He'd heard such tales, but none of it was true. And next time... next time? Did that mean—

The gauntlet slipped free and Geralt pressed his lips to the newly exposed wrist, pushing every thought out of Damien's head. He'd had those lips on his own lips, and now on his wrist. Where else would they go? He couldn't wait to find out.

It took all of his self control to stop from shaking as Geralt stripped him, placing each piece of armor aside gently, reverently. He caressed every patch of skin as it was revealed, making Damien gasp and shiver more than he would have liked. The first few touches, slow and soft, it made sense at the beginning, but surely this wasn't how things were done? Damien may not have the experience of others, but he'd heard his men talk of what they got up to with whores, and what they got up to with each other. Teeth bit, nails scratched, they pushed and shoved one another around before thrusting in, grunting like hogs.

Geralt was none of that, he took every part of Damien between careful hands, caressing newly bared skin. When the last layer finally fell away, leaving him standing naked in front of Geralt and his Duchess, Damien couldn't help his trembling. The same lips that kissed the scars on his face now settled on the one at his shoulder, a large crescent sweep down over his bicep, a soppy hit, most of his other scars were straight, clean cuts, but this was a little jagged. Of course that's where the Witcher's eyes went.

Damien tensed and Geralt stopped moving, lips still ghosting over the skin. “You don't have to. They're just scars.”

“That's where you're wrong. Scars show where we've been, what we've done. Every year when me and my brothers meet up, we show off any new scars, new stories.” Geralt's eyes met his, checking to see if he was still allowed to touch the ragged crescent. Damien nodded, then sighed softly as lips and a warm tongue traveled down its length. “Where's this one from?”

“Uh...” It was a stupid story, proof that even Damien had once been young and foolhardy, a brawl over a spilled drink of all things. He didn't wish for the Duchess (or Geralt) to see him in that light. “It's not... I don't wish to discuss that one.”

Geralt moved on without a single question, settling his eyes on the puckered puncture at Damien's collar bone. “And this? Looks like an arrow.”

“It was. Blasted bandits had a marksman among them, got a good shot off. But we triumphed in the end.” He tried not to let his eyes flutter closed as Geralt's fingers softly circled the scar with all the care and reverence of a master sculptor putting the finishing touches on their greatest work.

Biting down on his lip, Geralt growled softly. “I bet you did.” Out of the corner of his eye, Damien saw his cock leaking, fluid welling at the tip. He wanted to lick it away, but Geralt hadn't finished his inspection yet, his fawning over Damien's scars... Funny thing, that, he thought he wouldn't like sharing those stories, but seeing similar scars (or indeed, much worse ones) decorating Geralt's chest was a soothing balm Damien didn't know he needed. So he let Geralt look and touch and kiss, his trembling subsiding a little with each lick and nuzzle.

And then, he made the mistake of peering over Geralt's shoulder, catching a glimpse of _his_ Anna Henrietta, _his_ Duchess, the woman he'd gotten most of these scars for. He started shaking again and Geralt moved in closer, warping an arm around his hips. “Hey, you're alright, I've got you.” His other hand came up to cup Damien's cheek, lips brushing along his jaw. Breath coming in ragged pants, Damien lay his hand over the top of Geralt's, holding him closer.

This wasn't... this wasn't how it was supposed to be. If Damien was to perform for his Duchess, give her what she couldn't have, surely she'd want the Witcher known for his strength? She'd want him to rip her fine clothes off, buttons and hooks scattering across the floor for the chambermaids to find the next morning, hands gripping creamy thighs so hard they almost bruised, not this tender removal of armor, the kissing, the caressing. Surely this wasn't how it was done? Between men? Between Witchers?

But Anna Henrietta's eyes were wide, her lips parted, breath coming in rushed gasps. Though she looked perfectly composed to any other eye, Damien knew what she looked like in all moods, happy, sad, distressed, concerned... and now he knew what her lust looked like.

“Doesn't she look good?” Geralt whispered in his ear. Lips trailed up Damien's jaw. “I can smell her from here. She's sweating under all that silk, and her cunt is so wet, it's probably dripping down her thighs.”

Damien gasped. “Geralt! You cannot say that—”

“Yes he can, Damien, and yes, he is correct.” The wine glass in her hand was empty, more something to hold onto to try and keep her composure. Her dress shifted as she uncrossed her legs and crossed them again, trying to relieve some of the tension. She rolled her hips as well, grinding against the plush seat of the chair to get some relief... it did not help. “Please, continue.”

The tender kiss against his jaw shocked Damien enough to pull his eyes away from Anna Henrietta. Geralt smiled and circled around him, pressing his chest to Damien's back and holding him tight. His hands twitched to cover himself—he was open, exposed for the Duchess' eyes, it wasn't appropriate—but Geralt held his arms down, big hands on his hips. “I told Damien we'll call the shots, but I do take requests. Anything you'd like to see?”

There was an audible swallow from across the room and Damien found himself lost in her eyes again. Rough, calloused hands touching him, chest hair pressed against his back, formidable cock against his ass, all of it contrasting with the soft, feminine face in front of him. She pressed her lips together, almost like she wanted to lick them but feared smudging her make up. “I'd like you to take him, if that is pleasing for you both. Make it good for him, my Damien deserves it.”

“What do you think? Do you want me to have you?” Geralt's words reached him as if through a layer of water, muffled, far away. _My Damien_ , Anna Henrietta called him _hers_. And yes, he was hers, wholly and completely, more than he belonged to the Duchy, he belonged to the Duchess herself, and he'd do anything for her, the proof of that statement was obvious in the fact that he was currently naked with a Witcher kissing up his neck. A very handsome Witcher... Damien enjoyed when his goals aligned with Anna Henrietta's so perfectly.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Please.”

Another kiss and Geralt tugged him over to the bed. “I'll be gentle, don't you worry.”

“You don't have to be.”

Geralt shook his head. “Yes, I do.”

He lay Damien on his back and sat between his spread legs. Again, Damien squashed down the urge to hide himself. That wasn't what this was about, he was supposed to be seen, and by the hunger shining in Geralt's eyes, he liked what he saw. The bed was big enough for them to lay sideways, so Anna Henrietta saw all of them, not just thrusting, rolling muscles, but the planes of muscled chests as well. Damien was built like Geralt, both of them covered with bulging, tensing muscles designed for combat, now used for pleasure, theirs and hers.

Geralt ran his hands up the inside of Damien's thighs, the area mostly untouched, even by a blade. An injury here meant death, so of course Damien's thighs were creamy smooth with a sparse covering of hair. A low growl built in Geralt's chest, fingers itching to take that thick cock in his hand. But he couldn't rush this, he had to go slow, he did promise to be gentle. “When I meet my brothers for the winter, we don't just compare scars,” Geralt whispered as his fingers traced over another slash by Damien's knee. A sword for sure, but so low down, was the assailant a fool? Or did the skilled captain of the guard disarm him too quickly and this was the only piece he got of Damien? One day, Geralt would have time to ask about all his scars, he'd make sure of it. “We make love. We don't fuck, fucking is for brothels. You deserve everything I'd give to them.”

He ducked down, kissing up the inside of soft thighs, unable to stop the growl building in his throat. He wanted to taste that untouched skin, just a little, and lapped up the hottest part of Damien's leg, where he could feet life giving blood flowing under the skin. When he finished licking, he shifted up, nosing at Damien's balls to get the heavy scent of him. Damien was shaking so hard, Geralt thought he might crack apart, but he still held firm, holding him together so he didn't crash on the sores of pleasure like an unprepared ship. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “You're stunning, so responsive, I can feel your heart beating.”

Insistent hands pushed at his legs, up and back, until Damien's ass was on full display. He didn't know why, what was this position for? And then he felt the warm slurp of Geralt's tongue on the back of his sac, moving down, down... “Geralt!” he gasped. That tongue circled around his hole, where he—yes, he'd bathed before coming to see Geralt and Anna Henrietta, but was this a done thing? He'd never heard his men discussing _this_.

Geralt licked, moaning as if he were eating the most delicious banquet. “Fuck, Damien, you taste so good. Wanna eat you up.” Damien couldn't even argue with him, not when Geralt's tongue was driving him insane, flicking around his hole, _inside_ of it before retreating once more. Without so much as a hand on his cock, Damien found himself hovering on the edge, unable to fall over into bliss, but part of him didn't want to, he wanted to feel Geralt licking and sucking between his legs forever.

With a loud smack (so indecent, a furious blush stole up Damien's chest) Geralt sat up, tossing his hair over his shoulder, making him even more debauched somehow, as if he hadn't just had his tongue _there_. Spit shining on his cheeks, he winked. “Thanks, Damien, I want to taste all of you tonight.” And with that, Geralt wrapped his fingers around Damien's cock, stroking slowly from root to tip, the wealth of precome drooling from the slit easing his strokes.

“Fuck, I—” Damien didn't have time to think of the crude language he'd used in front of the Duchess, how shame should burn through him for loving her eyes on him, because Geralt's hands filled up his entire consciousness. One hand caressing his thigh, massaging almost, the other was barely moving. Slow, steady pulls Damien himself might use when he was alone coupled with the slickness at his ass, and he felt completion roaring towards him. Sparks flew down his spine, coalescing between his legs. “Geralt, stop, I can't—”

It was too late. Arching like a bow, Damien spilled across his stomach and Geralt's fingers, still stroking, wringing every last drop from him. Just as he became too sensitive, Geralt pulled away. Sitting up straight, gold eyes locked with his as he lifted his hand to his lips, licking Damien's spend away.

“Fuck,” he said again, suddenly not too concerned about his language.

When he caught his breath, Damien looked over at Anna Henrietta. “I'm sorry. That was—I didn't give you what you wanted. Please, forgive—”

A hand that still smelled of his own come cupped his chin, bringing Damien's gaze back to Geralt. That wolf smile was back. “Oh Captain, we've only just started. Needed to take the edge off a little.”

“There's _more_?”

Throwing his head back, Geralt laughed, snowy hair cascading over his shoulders. “Of course there's more. I give you as much as you want.”

Before Damien could answer (though what he might say, he hadn't a clue) Geralt's lips covered his, swallowing his moans and grunts. His own spend still clinging to his stomach, he melted into the bed and let Geralt take the lead once more. He knew he shouldn't, the captain of the guard must be more assertive, more sure of all his actions, even the more amorous ones.

“Don't worry,” Geralt said, once again reading his mind, “I can steer you around the curves, just enjoy.”

“I believe I already am.” He was still hard, his muscles loose from his climax, sweat cooling pleasingly on his skin. The usual lethargy that came right after _he came_ was skirting around the perimeter of his mind, but Damien's body decided Geralt between his legs was infinitely more interesting than sleep at the moment. “What now?”

“This.” Geralt held up a tin of salve liberated from the bath tray. He didn't even see the Witcher grab it. They were both naked, where could he possibly have kept it? “Only if you want.”

Damien grunted and went to sit up. “Yes, of course.”

He tried to turn over onto his hands and knees, he may never have done it before, but he knew what men got up to together. If Geralt wanted to have him (such flowery language, making love instead of fucking, sex was sex in Damien's lack of experience, there was a way these things were done) he knew how he had to position himself.

A strong hand on his hip held him down. “No, not like that.” Setting the salve aside, Geralt dipped down and ran the tip of his nose over Damien's belly, following the sparse trail of hair that connected to his cock. A few kisses and soft nibbles—unbearably soft, Damien found himself gasping, fingers curling into the sheets—and Geralt sat up again, urging Damien over onto his side and spooning up behind him.

Once again, Damien's eyes met Anna Henrietta's, a red flush high on her cheeks. Her hips rolled a little, almost imperceptible, as she tried to get friction against the chair. He gasped when a slick finger brushed against his hole. His body didn't clench the way he thought he might, still loose and relaxed from his previous orgasm, not to mention a finger was less shocking than Geralt's tongue in that same area. “Alright?” Geralt whispered, licking Damien's ear.

The finger didn't push, more gently massaged, working open the strong muscle. When the tip finally breached him, Damien moaned. Anna Henrietta moaned too, so soft he almost missed it. “Yes, it's... keep going.”

Soon, Damien was lost in a blissful haze. Between Geralt's fingers at his hole, so gentle, yet unrelenting, the lips on his skin, and Anna Henrietta's eyes burning into his, time lost all it's meaning. One digit inside of him, two... it didn't matter, it was all glorious, his body singing out, cock jerking. He needed to be touched again, he was going to burst apart at the seams. The urge to roll onto his knees and be taken like a man—like he believed men should be taken—started to fade as three of Geralt's thick fingers spread him open.

That husky voice continued to whisper to him, checking in. “Does it feel good? Can you take one more? Look at her, she loves it... she loves you, her devoted knight.”

“Yes,” it was the first thing she'd said in so very long and Damien startled out of his haze, “I do, very much. And I thank you for this gift you've both given me. Please, give him what he deserves.”

“Don't worry, I will.”

The fingers retreated suddenly and Damien almost whined at their loss. It was as if all the emptiness inside of him, emptiness he didn't even know was there, had filled up and he was complete for the moment, serving his Duchess in a way he'd never been able to before... a new kind of service that delivered more than personal satisfaction. And now it was _gone_.

But it was not gone for long as the blunt head of a cock pressed between his cheeks. Arching forward, Geralt wrapped an arm around him and held them fast together to keep Damien from rolling away. “Easy, breathe through it. Slow... I promise, it'll be good. She'll love it, you'll love it.” It didn't hurt, but it was entirely _too much_. He saw Geralt's cock from the bath, and he thought—well, Damien didn't know what he thought, he only focused on his duty, Anna Henrietta wanted to see this, everything else was secondary to her desires.

Geralt paused, letting him get used to it and soon Damien found himself pushing back, trying to get more. It was an addicting sensation, the fullness inside of him, barely scratching a deep itch he never knew he had. “More,” he finally said. “More.”

Geralt gave him more. Slowly but surely, his cock slid inside, the thick coating of salve making it the smoothest slide he'd ever felt. Nothing hurt, only an odd pressure that he soon got used to. When he felt the tickle of pubic hair against his ass, Damien let out a shuddering groan and his body went limp. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Do you want me to move?”

Move? Damien hadn't even thought... but yes, now he wanted it. He wanted more of this fullness, this completion. “Yes, please.”

Geralt reached over his hip to wrap a hand around his cock, sliding the other arm under Damien's head to use as a pillow. “Just relax. Let me do all the work.” His hips rolled slowly at first, hand stroking in time, and it was all Damien could do not to shake apart. Despite the overwhelming pleasure, his orgasm was far off in the distance, and he and Geralt were walking towards it at a leisurely pace, giving him more time to enjoy all the new sensations around him, inside of him—like the way Geralt somehow knew exactly how to touch, hand turning and twisting around the head of his cock before pushing down again, fingers brushing his balls, an area that he himself never really explored. What a fool Damien had been, even in his own personal pleasure, and now Geralt was here to show him all the things he'd missed in this life.

Sweat beaded across their skin wherever they touched and now Damien could smell the Witcher, a rich, masculine musk that even the bath hadn't completely chased away. He was used to the smell of unwashed men in the barracks, his guards standing in the hot sun too long, but that was nothing like this. The clean sweat of exertion lingered on both of them, adding another more familiar layer to the overwhelming new touches and experiences.

“Look at her,” Geralt grunted, his teeth pulling at Damien's neck, not hard enough to leave a mark but still satisfying. “Look at how much she loves seeing you like this, watching you enjoy yourself.”

Anna Henrietta truly was a sight to behold. She dropped the pretense of her wine glass and set it down in favor of unbuttoning the front of her dress, now Damien could see the red blush that extended all the way down to the tops of her breasts. He only wished to have Geralt's cock inside of him and those creamy breasts under his lips, that would be perfection.

A hard thrust brought his attention back to Geralt. “That was for her.” All of a sudden, he was gone, pulling out so swiftly, Damien felt the air go out of his lungs. Strong hands rolled him onto his back and Geralt lined up his cock again, pushing in, now face to face. Their noses bumped together, lips brushing before kissing deep, teeth grabbing his bottom lip and sucking. “This is for me.”

Damien couldn't resist the urge to reach out and wrap around Geralt, so he did. Winding his legs around strong hips, ankles crossed at the small of firm back, Damien held onto Geralt like life. “Don't leave me again. Please.”

“I won't.” Geralt kissed, his tongue swiping in, tasting the wine and delicious food they all had that night. “Fuck, Damien, I'd keep you on my cock all night if you wanted. You're so fucking beautiful, inside and out.”

 _Beautiful_ was not a word Damien had ever associated with himself, not even before his face was ruined. A soldier didn't need to be beautiful, he just needed to do his job, and right now, his job was getting fucked by Geralt of Rivia while his Duchess watched. Wrapping tighter around him, Damien tilted his hips. “More, give me more. I need you to give me more.”

That feral smile returned and Geralt's hips picked up speed. At their new angle, the thick shaft brushed over Damien's prostate again and again, sending shivering shocks through his limbs. “I'll give you all you want. All night, I can go all night.”

Damien wasn't sure if he'd last another minute, let alone all night. But it was too good, with his cock trapped between their bellies, the friction was just enough to send him over a second time. Geralt swallowed the embarrassing moans he made and continued to fuck him through it, the pleasure going on, and on, and on...

He had just enough energy to moan when Geralt pulled out, that glorious, thick cock leaving him once again. Damien wanted to see it, he had a brief look earlier, not enough to truly take it all in, but his eyes were so very heavy now. Geralt's hair was sweaty, matted to his head, and the candles diffused the light around him like a halo as he fetched a clean cloth and some water from the bath to wipe sweat and seed from Damien.

Those same strong hands that held him a moment ago were so tender as they pushed his legs apart, wiping away Geralt's seed from inside him. Damien thought he'd be embarrassed to have Anna Henrietta still watching, but his mind was so blissfully fuzzy, he couldn't locate her if he tried. “You look so good with my come dripping out of you,” Geralt growled. “Makes me want to lick it away... next time.” Next time, he kept saying that, Damien hoped it was true.

“Wonderful,” her voice floated on the air. “That was magnificent. The way you take care of him... I cannot thank you enough.”

“Can he stay?” Geralt's voice was so close to his ear, kissing anywhere he could reach. “I like sharing a bed with my partners even after. Unless you need him...”

“No, please, take care of him tonight. You both deserve it.” Damien managed to open his eyes enough to see Anna Henrietta rise from her seat and head towards the door. “Thank you, Geralt, you do not know what you've done for me.” Surprisingly soft eyes lingered on them both, and her hand twitched, almost like she wanted to reach out and touch.

“I know my request,” Geralt said before she could leave. He gathered Damien closer, hugging him tight. “I want you both to come to Corvo Bianco for dinner. Undercover, like we did to inspect the Sangrial. No Duchess, no captain of the guard, just Anna Henrietta, and Damien. I want you both there to experience the _charms_ of Corvo Bianco.”

Damien held his breath. He knew what tonight was about, the Duchess couldn't have the Witcher the way she wanted, so Damien had him for her, it was the only way things could be, they were all so sure of it... except Geralt, clearly, he was able to look passed such things.

Anna Henrietta nodded. “We will make arrangements. Goodnight to you both.”

The door closed and Geralt held him even tighter. A nose began sniffing behind his ear, lips kissing like they hadn't just fucked or... made love, like they were still flirting and building up to it instead of well satisfied and sated for the evening. Geralt clearly wasn't done with him and Damien was perfectly fine with that. “You can leave if you want, but I would like you to stay.”

“I'd like that as well.”

There was a smile against the back of his neck. “Good.”

Geralt held him for another moment, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, “Thank you for trusting me, she loved it, did you love it? Please, tell me what you want for next time...” before they rose to clean up properly. No longer sticky or sweaty, Geralt wrapped around Damien. “Thank you,” he said again. “I enjoyed that very much. Best ball I've been to in a long time.” Damien snorted and closed his eyes. He had to agree with that assessment.

When he woke up just before dawn—too many years of training wouldn't let him sleep in—Geralt was there, ready to kiss and cuddle, hand sliding under the sheets. They made love again and Damien couldn't help but imagine the next time, and the next time...

* * *

Corvo Bianco was close to the palace for convenience, but still far enough away that no one gave a second look to two hooded figures making their way through the night. B.B had the night off so Geralt met Damien and Anna Henrietta at the door. As soon as it was shut, he wrapped an arm around Damien's hips, pulling him into a deep kiss.

When they parted, Anna Henrietta squeezed between them, finally capturing Geralt's lips the way she'd ached to, longed for so many months... And with Damien at her back, forever protecting her, part of her knew this was how it was supposed to be. No one could fault her for desiring the protection of her captain of the guard while in an unknown bed, and if they did mind, they could all go rot.

Anna Henrietta had seen her palace, her country, almost brought to ruin; Damien had watched too many of his men die; and Geralt, well, he always had the saddest story of them all, too many years of life and hardship grinding him down... And yet they all fit here, together, in Geralt's bed, hearts beating as one as they moved and grunted, spilling across the sheets, royal legs wrapped around her most dutiful servant while Geralt thrust in from behind. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be, a man who didn't care about society finally giving Damien and Anna Henrietta permission to say _fuck the rules_ , and live happily ever after.


End file.
